


Sleepy Kitten

by Avera_Illisa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon divergence - divorced John, Fluff, Hurt and comfort, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Kisses, M/M, Mentions of sexual activity, No Smut, Pining John, Scars, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is a sleepy kitten, Sherlock is adorable, Sleepy Sherlock, mentions of torture, more comfort though, no rosie, not season 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9769142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avera_Illisa/pseuds/Avera_Illisa
Summary: After a particularly arduous case, Sherlock was susceptible to a post-case crash. John knew this. Lestrade knew this. Practically anyone who plied their expertise in New Scotland Yard knew this.But what John didn't know is how fucking adorable he could be in sleep.Midnight kisses - and revelations - ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short ficlet I wrote while pretending series 4 did not happen. Might make a second chapter.

After particularly arduous cases, Sherlock was susceptible to a post case-crash. John knew this; Lestrade knew this; possibly every person that plied their expertise at New Scotland Yard knew this. When everything had been resolved; every detail avidly perused, Sherlock would stumble to the nearest flat surface and just collapse in an inelegant sprawl of limbs, heedless to the site of his dozing. One some occasions, such places would be innocent and congruous enough that John would simply allow him to continue his neglected slumber - the couch in 221B, his bed, and sometimes the armchair; tucking his long limbs against his chest to ensconce himself in the upholstery. Other times, John would find his flatmate napping on less fitting places - draped across the coffee table, supine upon the carpeted floor, slumped against the kitchen counter mid-experimentation with his fingers still fiddling the microscope knobs. 

 

But in most occasions, Sherlock tended to pick the weirdest, most peculiar and frankly ridiculous places to shut down. 

“John!!” 

John jerked up at the sound of his name, blearily looking about to pinpoint its source. He was in New Scotland Yard, post-case, and had been slumped against the hallway outside Lestrade’s office waiting for Sherlock to emerge. Though the case had ended (after three consecutive days of sleep negligence) and the murderer appropriately apprehended (it was the brother with the crooked nose; who knew?), there was still the matter of paperwork to be resolved, and though Sherlock loved nothing more than flouncing off after the resolution of a case to ignore the tedium of its paperwork aftermath, Lestrade had managed to coax him - with a good helping of profanities and physical manhandling - to help him sort it out. This of course led John to snag a quick nap upon the corridor wall until the detective’s reappearance - that is, until he heard his name being bellowed by what sounded like a very irritated Lestrade. 

Moments following came the man himself, throwing open the door to his office to accost John with one of his long-suffering expressions. John pushed himself off the wall as he approached, scrubbing a hand across his silver hair with an exasperated sigh. 

“Get him off the paperwork, will you?” he stated curtly, with neither preamble nor context, and sauntered off with a wave of a hand in response to John’s arched brow. “Tell him to sort it out after a good night’s rest. Jesus.” 

John, notably confused by the proceedings and Lestrade’s cryptic descriptions of Sherlock’s latest escapade, decided to sort the mystery out for himself by peeking in through the door of the office.

“Oh, great.” 

And there was Sherlock, in all his long-limbed glory, sprawled across the office desktop like an onerous tomcat. His head was propped upon an arm, the other draped across his belly, each breath a rumbling purr. Various objects had been strewn across the floor in scattered heaps - spilt files, a toppled lamp, and the remnants of what looked to be a mug in splintered shards amidst a widening coffee stain. And in the midst of the chaos was the detective, an extraneous image to the mess of his surroundings, looking wholly contented; lithe body cushioned by the paperwork he had been supposedly doing. It almost appeared that Sherlock, exhaustion exacerbated by Lestrade’s coercion into further work, had simply stood up, pushed everything off the desk with a sweep of an arm, and draped himself across the tabletop. Which, considering the exasperated look that had been on the detective inspector’s face, was probably exactly what had occurred. 

John surveyed the mess with little more than a long-suffering sigh, accustomed was he to the misdemeanors of his ridiculous flatmate. Granted, it wasn’t the most peculiar place he’d chosen to sleep on after a case, but as Sherlock slept like a goddamn log in the rare moments he did, it was going to be particularly cumbersome to rouse him awake and haul him off the important papers and documents he’d so audaciously planted his arse upon. Squaring his shoulders, John advanced upon the slumbering detective, mind whirring through the many tactics he could exact to get Sherlock off Lestrade’s desk.

“Sherlock,” he called, shaking the detective’s shoulder. He received a mumble in response, the shift of a torso, the fluttering of black lashes against a pale cheek. Sherlock mumbled something completely incoherent, possibly in a language only other half-asleep people could comprehend, then simply settled into a deeper sleep. 

John, as irritated as he was with this lack of response, tried to curb his grin. Admittedly, Sherlock was rather....endearing when asleep; in the rare occasions of grogginess that clouded his usual sharp-minded lucidity. Rosy cheeked and content, with sharp features softened in relaxation and framed by dark curls, he looked akin to a...a..a bloody child. A bloody 6 feet, exasperating child, but an endearing one all the same. 

“Sherlock,” he repeated, lightly tapping the detective’s cheek with his palm. “Hey, Sherlock.” 

“Mmm..?” came a sleepy mumble; a low rumble that resonated from Sherlock’s narrow chest. His eyelids fluttered upon; a blue-green glimmer through feathery lashes, before promptly falling shut again. He stretched, yawned, and batted John’s hands away. “What do you want, John...?” the words were a sleepy murmur; a low drone that had been barely discernible. An errant curl had unwoven from his movements to fall across his forehead in a single black coil, his hands tucked against his chest. He looked like a sleepy kitten.

Well. Okay. Fuck endearing. Sleepy Sherlock was fucking adorable. 

“You need to get up, you git,” John said fondly, the beginnings of the smile he’d tried to subdue curving the tips of his lips. He moved to pat the detective’s cheek again, hoping to rouse him into further clarity - but his hand traveled on its own accord to brush the wayward curl from his forehead, carding into Sherlock’s soft dark hair. An appreciative rumble worked its way up from his throat in response. “You’re lying on top of Lestrade’s desk, and you’re probably denting all the paperwork.” He gripped the detective’s arm, meaning to pull him off the tabletop. “C’mon, you dickhead.” 

“I don’t wanna...” was the sleepy response, and John had to stamp down the sudden urge to scoop Sherlock up for being so goddamn cute. 

“Up you get, you lazy arse.” 

“No.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Lemme sleep here...” 

_You know what?_ John thought; _fuck it._

Sherlock made a surprised sound when John shoved an arm under his thighs and pulled him against his chest, scooping the sleepy detective into his arms. The result was a bridal-style carry, with Sherlock’s lithe frame tucked against his chest and his head lolling upon John’s shoulder. Sherlock blinked in surprise and bewilderment but, as he was still not completely in control of his mental faculties, did not voice any protests to the arrangement; instead burrowing deeper into the circle of John’s arms, face tucked against the crook of his neck. He could feel soft curls tickling his jawline, his muscles straining from the added weight (albeit much lighter than an average male of his age should be; he needed to get Sherlock to eat more, goddamnit) of the detective in his arms, but _fucking hell_ would John ever let go of him; not when he could feel the warmth of his skin seeping through the layers of fabric between them; when he could hear Sherlock’s heart beat a steady, calming percussion against the fluttering of his own. _Fucking hell._

Grinning like a cat that got the canary (instead of the army doctor that got the detective), John kicked the door open wider with Sherlock still ensconced in his arms, stumbling from the office into the hallways of New Scotland Yard. Some officers turned to stare, open-mouthed and aghast, as he passed; some just shook their heads and assumed their work, accustomed to the Strange and Peculiar Ways of Sherlock Holmes. He rounded a corner and stumbled into the main entrance way, where Lestrade was nursing a newly procured cup of coffee in mid-conversation with the familiar, curly-haired figure of Sally Donovan. They both turned to him as he entered, and John wished he could’ve taken a photo of the frankly comical expressions of shock on their faces. 

John grinned cordially at them, dipping his head in greeting as though nothing was amiss about carrying a six foot sleeping detective against his chest like a newly-wed couple on the way to the honeymoon suite. Although from the looks he was receiving from New Scotland Yard’s workforce, they probably would’ve begged to differ. 

“We’ll be heading back now, okay, Greg?” he declared, and only got a weary shake of a head in response. Donovan was still staring, mouth agape, shocked silent by the spectacle of the sharp-tongued detective being carried like a sleepy child in the arms of his blogger-sidekick. She looked like a goldfish. Sherlock would’ve appreciated the simile. 

“Just tell him he owes me paperwork, yeah?” Lestrade replied, still shaking his head as though repeating the action would make them disappear faster. “Jesus, you guys are the weirdest pair I’ve ever met.” 

Sherlock mumbled sleepily against his chest, then nuzzled deeper into John’s arms with a contented exhale as they vacated the premise of New Scotland Yard. John could feel each breath skitter against his jawline; could feel the soft press of lips against his skin as Sherlock burrowed closer. A burst of warmth blossomed from his chest as he stumbled into the late London air, distant streetlights dotting the city like fallen stars. He cradled his detective closer and pressed his lips against his forehead - something he’d been aching to do since Sherlock’s adorable sleepy-kitten impression had first presented itself - and sighed against his skin. 

“You impossible git,” he whispered against the detective’s hairline, heart warming with affection as Sherlock sleepily wound his arms around John’s neck to press closer against John’s lips. He hailed a cab (a struggle on normal days, now exacerbated by the detective occupying his arms) and climbed in with him still on his lap; a warm, delightful weight against his chest. 

“ _My_ impossible git,” he whispered, testing the words on his tongue; feeling the rush of elation at the admission; the revelation that he wanted him his. He pulled Sherlock closer against him, gratified when Sherlock arranged his limbs to better prop his head against John’s shoulder, and vowed that the next kiss would be in the comfort of their shared home, against pert lips, under the shroud of night and the stars that bled their splendor into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses, endearments, and revelations in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be short, light and fluffy like the previous chapter, but it turned into this long-ass, heavy chapter. It must be my coping mechanism to deal with season 4 lol
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!!

It was hot; borderline toasty, but Sherlock appreciated the warmth. It was a strangely pleasant sensation - like being enveloped in an embrace, feeling the tepid heat of another’s body pressed snug against your own, the soothing warmth a salve against skin. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody held him with such tenderness - his mother? His father? It definitely wasn’t Mycroft - the lengths of physical contact they could endure were rather finite, limited to firm grasps of the hand or an awkward pat upon the shoulder. Perhaps it had been Mrs Hudson - there was no boundary to displays of affection there, certainly one of the few people he’d oblige a hug or a kiss on the cheek with minimal complaint. Her hugs were soft though, and as warm as sunshine; an ephemeral, honeyed glow that made Sherlock feel more protective than protected. This warmth..no, it was different. It was reassuring; secure. As though someone had swept him into their arms with the intention to guard and shelter. It was dissimilar to the smothering hugs he’d received from his mum, the soft embraces he’d shared with Mrs. Hudson. Even Lestrade’s brief but fierce clasp the night of his return couldn’t compare. No, this was something else entirely...it was protection; love and loyalty, evoking memories of someone else - a stalwart yet unassuming man, with pewter tresses streaked with the occasional silver. It brought with it the scent of tea and cheap aftershave; the tangy flavor of security, the metallic bite of guns and danger. It smelt of protection, of refuge, of...

Sherlock’s eyes shot open. _John._

And so it was. 

Sherlock was currently nestled in his bed, the sheets a tangle around his legs, his head propped against something that seemed suspiciously dissimilar to his pillow. His arm had been lazily slung over the familiar jumper-clad belly of his apparent bed-mate, his wide eyes measuring the even rise-and-fall of that broad chest. Startled into further lucidity Sherlock sprang bolt-upright, face flushed with heat, as he stared down at the sleeping figure of John Watson sprawled next to him, a hand still limply draped across Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock felt color rush down his face, spreading like a growing inkblot to his neck and chest. John was here, next to him. In his bed. Sleeping with him. 

Sherlock had gone rigid with the discovery, contemplating the decision of simply sidling closer to John’s side, nuzzling his face into the coarse stubble of his jaw, and falling asleep in the warmth of his arms. It would certainly be one of his only chances to indulge in domestic, sleepy cuddles with the doctor, owing to the fact that John would likely be mortified upon awakening and shun further physical contact with him due to a crisis with his sexuality or whatever inane drivel John fed himself. Limbs still sluggish with indecision and the lingering fear that this might be A Bit Not Good, Sherlock lowered himself back against John’s side and pressed his face against his chest, relishing the warmth that seeped through the layers of clothing between them. John mumbled something incoherent into his hair and shifted closer, tightening his hold on Sherlock’s waist. His heart jumped at that; pulse elevating. 

Shyly he glanced up at the army doctor; his jaw bristling with two day’s worth of stubble, blond lashes fanning over rounded cheeks. Even with his military background, affinity for danger, and particularity about death, Sherlock had always found that John looked strangely angelic when asleep. The furrows of his eyes softened, the stern-set of his jaw now lax, his military-borne stance and composure lost in favor of comfier, relaxed sleep positions. His hair - streaked with more silver than Sherlock would care to admit, and most of it likely his fault - had been swept off his forehead in his recent new style; the ‘swoop’ he’d adopted after Sherlock’s aborted suicide mission that he’d secretly found endearing and attractive, but never had the gall to admit. He wished he could thread his hands through it, then trace an adoring pathway down the slope of his nose to his jaw with his fingertips - but as he was probably already violating some unspoken Platonic Friend Code of Conduct by sleeping next to John on the same bed, that was most likely breaching the limits of what John would tolerate as A Bit Not Good. 

Not wanting to startle the doctor awake and end this blissful - yet regretfully transient - moment of warm domesticity, Sherlock shifted silently closer to John with a contented sigh, pushing down all thoughts of how John would react to this bed-sharing arrangement. He didn’t want the doctor to leave him; didn’t want to be left, all alone, in the silence of a now too-big empty flat crammed with the mess of one instead of two. But ever since the pandemonium of the past few months had occurred - the whole escapade with Magnussen and Mary and John’s divorce - the scenario of John leaving was becoming more and more likely, and Sherlock was sure that this would be the icing on the metaphorical cake. After all, John had always been quick to dispute any allusions as to their relationship; almost as if the very thought that he and Sherlock might be together repelled him. The declaration had wounded Sherlock every time he made it; though he had always schooled his expression to suggest otherwise, fearing the thought that John might find out. If John were to discover that Sherlock was attracted to him...Sherlock burrowed deeper into John’s warmth, feeling his heart tug at the implications. Well, that’d surely be the end of whatever fragile friendship they’d managed to maintain even after everything they’d been through. 

Sherlock tamed the pounding of his heart and shoved the thoughts away in an attempt to stifle his tears. He would not cry. He would not cling onto the feeble hope that had arisen ever since John had divorced Mary and returned to Baker Street. John didn’t see him in that way; didn’t think of him that way. And what did Sherlock do to ever give him cause to? He’d left for two years; let him grieve for a death that hadn’t been. Granted, it was for a good reason - and he’d rather face John’s ire in the restaurant a thousand times over than live with the other option he had - but that didn’t change the fact that he’d betrayed John’s trust in him and let him suffer alone for two years; so much so his only respite had been in the arms of a manipulative assassin. Not to mention how awfully he’d screwed up the Magnussen case - he’d wanted to grant Mary an out, and by inference liberate John from his clutches, but he’d never thought that Magnussen could’ve had something like that up his sleeve, and it had nearly cost him everything. In fact, it practically had - he’d forfeited his life and nearly John’s friendship, and only the return of Moriarty had prevented him from being shipped back to Serbia to face his last six months. He’d failed John countless times. There was no reason for him to stay; nothing tethering him to Sherlock and the life they might’ve led. 

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock was jolted out of his self-depreciating thoughts, scrambling backwards in sudden fear. John’s eyes were open, still glazed with sleep, squinting to make out the outline of Sherlock’s body in the dark. Sherlock could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he shifted away from John, shrinking back from his inquisitive, groggy stare. He could feel the shame creep up his chest and neck, infusing his pale features with a dark crimson as he averted his eyes from John. He didn’t want to meet John’s eyes - didn’t want to see the awareness of their current situation dawn; the transition between confusion and disgust. His heart was already being riven in two - he didn’t need John’s repulsed face engraved at the back of his skull on top of that. 

He was startled when he felt tentative fingers reach for him, curling around his bony wrist. He risked a glance upwards and was surprised to see a pleasant and - dare he say it - borderline affectionate gaze being directed back at him; the barest of smiles lifting the corners of John’s lips. The barest glimmers of dawn had begun to seep in through the thin brocade of curtains behind him, limning his skin in light and shadow. Even the lingering grogginess in his expression and his sleep-mussed hair couldn’t detract from how beautiful John was now, and when he tugged him closer by the wrist he could not protest the movement. 

“John,” he started suddenly, acutely aware of the distance between them - or in this case, the lack thereof. He shifted to move away, but John’s steadfast grasp on his wrist arrested the movement, his other arm snaking back around his waist. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush, his eyes wide to observe any reservations or embarrassment in John’s countenance in response to their close proximity - but he could find none. The same affectionate smile still adorned John’s features, eyes dancing with mirth and light, his palms pressing warm and assuredly into the small of his back. Once more he was engulfed in warmth and security; the mingling of familiar scents that made John...John. The infusion of tea and aftershave; the bite of guns and danger. He swore he could almost taste them on his tongue. 

“Good morning, love,” John stated, and Sherlock swore the smile that followed could thaw miles of snow and ice. 

His eyes widened at the endearment, jaw slackening in shock. Love. Love. Sherlock wasn’t well versed with social etiquette - he’d been apprised of this countless times, by enumerable people, in rancor - but he was fairly certain that wasn’t how a typical heterosexual man addressed his platonic mate. John’s voice had been hoarse; roughened by sleep, and admittedly intoxicating. But it hadn’t been able to mask the affectionate nuance of his tone; the adoration and reverence that John normally reserved for his most patient girlfriends. Never, in his most wildest fantasies, had he been addressed with such open veneration - and surely never from the one man whose affections he’d been certain weighed more than his worth. His eyes traced his expression, taking in the deep indigo wells of his eyes, the furrows that deepened with each smile, the tilt of his lips; scrutinizing and deducing, his mind whirring away on overdrive trying to surmise his intention. He’d always relied on his usually infallible logic - the train of reasoning that led him to ply his expertise in his profession. But now? Looking into John’s remarkably soft eyes, their faces inches apart, their limbs intertwined? It defied all the logic he had it in him to muster; all the evidence he’d salvaged across the months they’d been apart. John was not interested in men; that had been clear the moment he’d first refuted the claims implying such. And even if he was, he couldn’t possibly be interested in Sherlock - the man who gave him reason to grieve, the man who’d betrayed his trust and failed his expectations. People have rejected him for much less. So why was he looking at him like that now; as if he was the only thing that gave life meaning? 

“John?” his voice was soft; plaintive, voicing the only word he had it in him to articulate. 

John smiled again; the same smile of a thousand nights ago, slumped against the hallway in a bout of giggling that never seemed to subside. That moment of fire and electricity; of a connection of which Sherlock had never felt, the click of two who, against all odds, found each other in the throngs of a city to start something new. 

“I’m here, love.” There it was again; the same endearment, the same nuance of love and affection. Sherlock’s mouth parted as if to speak, but his usual eloquent vernacular seemed to have been wiped clean by John’s words. He chuckled in response - a light, airy sound that Sherlock thought he’d never hear again - and curled his fingers into his hair, drawing him closer. The distance that separated them felt both too little and too much; a contradiction, much like the man himself. 

“Is this a dream?” _Am I still asleep? Will this end when the sun comes up, and I have to pretend again that I’m not hopelessly in love with you?_

“No.” _No it isn’t._

Because I am just the same. 

Sherlock didn’t know who moved first; perhaps it had been him, perhaps it had been John. Both alternatives were equally likely, but it was just as probable that both of them decided simultaneously to close the little remaining distance that separated their lips. 

The kiss was like that first night - a fire, an inferno, electrifying the air with its current. It was heat and lava and passion; fanning the flames that ignited within his gut, urging them higher and higher until Sherlock felt engulfed in its fiery warmth. It was the desperation of a thousand lonely hours; the millions of seconds they spent apart, every inch that had ever estranged them. It carried the smolder of hellfire, but also the cooling current of the tides - the assuaging ebb and flow, the salve to frayed nerves and fear. It was the burn of the flames and the assurance of the water - carrying their desire, but also their need to protect and treasure. _I’m going to eat you alive,_ it seemed to say; _I’m going to tear you apart, have at you until you can’t breathe. But then I will put you back together, smooth back your hair, tell you I’ll stay. Make you believe it._  
John’s mouth was hard against his; capturing his bottom lip between his teeth, laving at his sensitive skin. In every gesture Sherlock could feel his own desperation mirrored; the frantic urge to have and claim, to capture every moment. Soft hands cupped the back of his head, sifting through curls and carding against his scalp, to pull him closer against the press of lips. He was pinned against the mattress, hands scrabbling at John’s shoulders for purchase; for anchorage, his hips straddled by John’s thighs. John’s hand was fisted in his hair, his tongue pushing past parted lips, a growl deep in his throat. He was fierce want and protectiveness; hard-edged desperation and soft-handed care. He was a contradiction ; the enigma that had first drawn him in, intrigued him more than anyone else had. This was the John of that first night; before meeting Mary, before he’d thrown himself off the roof of St. Barts and forfeited his trust. The John he’d thought he’d buried the day he ‘died’. His John. _My John._

They broke apart, flushed and panting, the evidence of their ardent session dashed across their cheeks and tenting their trousers. Sherlock’s chest heaved with the effort to breathe; to remember the method of drawing air into his lungs; to calm his thrashing heart before he passed out. He could still feel the imprint of John’s mouth on his as though it had been burnt there - branded against his lips like a mark; a sign of ownership. Sherlock was surprised to discover the idea appealed to him. He wanted to be covered in that mark - all those little welts and bruises, tiny reminders that he belonged to John.

John’s eyes were still locked on his; swelling inkwells amongst a ring of indigo. Sherlock almost squirmed under the scrutiny of that heated gaze, his insides still churning with want. He wanted John’s mouth back on his; coveted for that fire and ice, the electricity that pulsed between their locked lips. But John was staring at him in a manner that implied a discussion was forthcoming, and Sherlock tried to tamp down the fear it evoked. He’d finally had John’s mouth pressed against his; tasted each wicked curl of that judicious tongue. He couldn’t have John regret his actions now. He couldn’t have John leave him, empty and alone, with just the memory of this one night to sate him for the rest of his days. 

Consumed in his spiraling thoughts, Sherlock wasn’t even aware that John was smiling until he began to chuckle. 

Admittedly put out by this (and the fact that he was the only one toiling in anxiety and apprehension), Sherlock scowled. “What?” 

“I can practically hear you thinking,” John stated, lip curled in amusement. He brushed a wayward curl off Sherlock’s forehead, his fingertips igniting sparks as it trailed across his skin. 

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disdain. “Its not like I can just stop, John.” 

“No, no; I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” John was quick to amend, his finger still skimming down Sherlock’s jawline in a faint tracery of shapes. Sherlock couldn’t resist shivering slightly under his touch. “Its just...I just...missed it. You, sequestered up in your mind palace thinking of god know’s what at the most ridiculous times. I should’ve known post-snog sessions wouldn’t be any different.” 

Sherlock flushed and scowled, but his hands were still twined around John’s neck. His tone had been light, tinged with mirth, and hadn’t wavered even at the mention of their previous kiss. He hadn’t seemed like he had regretted the action, and Sherlock felt a spark of hope rekindle in his chest - and promptly squashed it down. It was too soon to tell yet, and he was more than aware of how capable John was of masking emotion when given the right incentive. 

As if he had heard his thoughts, John’s amused expression faltered, then was schooled into something a bit less light. Sherlock felt his heart plummet to his gut.

“We should take about this,” John whispered, as if it was a subject necessary of a tentative approach. Which it was, if Sherlock’s splintering heart was any indication. 

“About what?” Feigned nonchalance; schooled voice. John saw through it immediately. 

His expression hardened, but only a tad. “Don’t play dumb with me, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock quieted. 

John’s face softened, and his thumb stroked over the arch of his brow. His touch was gentle; soft. The doctor’s touch, not the soldier’s. Though Sherlock had always loved both the same way. 

“Well, how about we start with this?” John’s smile returned, and it was like watching a candle burst into a flame. He cupped Sherlock’s face; traced the shape of his lips with his own. It was far gentler than the desperation that had tinged their previous kiss - just a brush of lips, nothing more - but it told stories and unspoken truths; promises that rewrote their lonely futures. 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock gasped against his mouth, and they were kissing again. Gentler, softer; the kiss they prolonged, because they finally had the time. His eyes fluttered shut to reciprocate, his long fingers caressing the nape of John’s neck, his breath a whisper against golden skin. He felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, let them spill - because he knew they were done with hiding. 

“I love you too, John,” he wavered; voice tremulous, but utterly sincere; speaking the words he never thought he could. 

John made a small noise at the back of his throat and pressed closer, tracing his lips with his tongue, coaxing them to part and admit him entry. Sherlock obliged, and then they were breathing each other’s air; sharing the same breath. Existing in a pocket of space dissociated from the world - something that belonged only to them. It was fragile; uncertain, but it would grow and strengthen; persevere just as they had until they had finally reached this point. 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John murmured against his lips, the words a vibration. He felt a dampness against his skin and wondered whether John was crying too. 

“John,” he whispered as they drew back, face flushed with fervor and tears. In this moment, Sherlock finally understood - their bodies were mirrors, reflecting the same passion, the same ardent want. But like any pane, it could be distorted - perception clouded by mist, obscured by misconception, until only a skewed image remained. Sherlock wondered just how long they had been looking at each other through fogged glass. 

But the time for lies and deception and misjudgment were over. He swiped a palm across that misted pane; urged John to do the same. There was no room for haze and miasma - only clarity and understanding, and the necessary revelations that preceded it all. 

“I missed you, John,” Sherlock managed, his voice choked with tears. But the wetness on his cheeks were warm; welcome. It carried the warmth of acceptance; not the coolness of regret. He would lay himself bare to John and hope he did the same. “Every day, every hour. Every second you spent with a girlfriend, and every night you spent with _her_.” 

John’s lip began wobbling dangerously, and Sherlock almost lost his nerve. But he steeled himself. Nothing good could come from hiding - heaven knows just how long he’d locked these thoughts away; from John, from his brother, from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and anyone that tried to look deeper. From himself, too; but only now did he have the strength to admit it. 

“I’m sorry I had to leave, John,” he continued, squeezing his eyes shut. He remembered the rigidity of the concrete beneath him; the dampness of fake blood dashed across his schooled features; the sussurus of murmurs as his network, disguised as medical professionals and bystanders, congregated on the scene. And among it all, John; stumbling towards him with an expression gone numb with shock, hand extended and fingers trembling against his wrist. The agony of his voice and the stiffness of his movements; sorrow etched into every line on his face. He remembered it all. He doubted he would ever allow himself the privilege to forget. 

“But it had been necessary.” Snipers. He should’ve known, should’ve foreseen such an obvious ploy. If Mycroft hadn’t been there to oversee the plans with his usual omnipotence, John would likely have died. Yet another failure Sherlock could add to his growing repertoire. “If I hadn’t jumped...Moriarty would have killed you. He would’ve killed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and...and you.” I would’ve been alone again. He exhaled deeply, steadying his nerves. He still hadn’t the gall to look John in the eye, who had frozen utterly at the face of his confessions. “Moriarty had snipers on all three of you. If I hadn’t killed myself and made them believe it...made you believe it...all of you would’ve died. I had no other choice.” 

“And even after that I couldn’t come back,” Sherlock whispered, trembling in the wake of the memories he was evoking. Two years of running; of plotting and scheming and killing; of chains chafing his wrists in a dirty Serbian cell echoing with the mockery of his assailants. His back still stung from the bite of the whip; felt the smolder of every cigarette butt that had been pressed against his skin. Black flowers had bloomed in the wake of each one, and every lash of that whip had risen a rope of white scar to commemorate it. “I had to leave to take down Moriarty’s network, and ensure none of them would come back and finish the job had they discovered I was still alive. I had to go everywhere - and when they captured me in Serbia they...” 

“They captured you?” John started; the first words he had uttered since his moment of revelations had began. His face was tinged gray, his expression one of abject horror. Sherlock faltered, knowing neither of them wanted to hear what was coming next. But he had to say it. If there was any chance of starting what they both wanted - this new thing that might be liable to break at the slightest provocation - it was making a clean breast of everything; every turmoil they’d endured, every sentiment felt. 

“Yes,” he affirmed, ducking his head in shame. He’d slipped up after assassinating one of Moriarty’s more dangerous goons - he’d been tired and cold, running of days of no sleep and borderline dehydration, and had failed to erase the evidence that would’ve incriminated him. Even running, in the end, had been a futile venture - they’d been on him in seconds, congregating like a flock of black-clad birds, armed with an impressive array of artillery that had arrested further escape. They’d hauled him back to their base to be interrogated, and that was when the nightmare had began. Even after months had past, he still woke up with a scream bottled in his throat, the tang of mildew and blood still heavy on his tongue. “I...got captured. I was held there for several months before Mycroft managed to locate and rescue me, and they...” 

Sherlock’s throat closed up, reliving the memories of those horrifying days. He’d been chucked into a filthy cell and awoken at regular intervals to taste the sting of the whip and a metallic bite of their blades. They’d cut into him; burnt him; lashed his back open with a whip. The weekly routine of torture had narrowed into a daily one, and then further into an hourly one - until they happened frequently enough that sleep had become impossible. The days had blended together - no time had seemed to exist within the putrid confines of that cramped cell. He’d been arrested in a pocket of timelessness; alive but craving death, with only the visual of John’s smile and the prospect of returning to him egging him onwards. Even Mycroft had suggested therapy when he’d returned; a notion he’d immediately refused. Now, though; when choked whimpers were replacing the explanation of the experience he was supposed to give, he wondered whether the declination had really been the best course of action.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John whispered, his voice tremulous and aghast. He felt a strong arm curl around his trembling shoulders, and when they pulled him forwards he didn’t resist. “Come here, love.” 

He smothered his face into John’s embrace, shivering with the phantom of the Serbian cold. His arms winded around John’s back, clinging to him, as if he could erase every last vestige of that torturous experience - wipe clean the memories that still tormented, and kiss away the marks that crisscrossed his back like a gruesome lattice. John’s arms were trembling, but his hold was steady; smoothing down his back in a gesture to soothe, but also to document the many scars and lesions that had been painted across his skin. He felt John swear against his neck as he felt them out through the flimsy material of his shirt, and pull him deeper against his embrace. He didn’t protest the movement nor John’s tactile perusal of his back - though he was still ashamed of the scars - the evidence of his weakness - having John know was strangely a weight of his mind. He didn’t have to hide anything, anymore - he had revealed his weakness to John; the suffering he’d endured at the cost of his mistakes. And John still chose to hold him and assuage him rather than walk away. He didn’t have to be afraid of that, anymore - John would stay. He’d soothe the aches and pains; kiss the memories away. If anyone could do it, it was his army doctor - the one that had wrangled his own PTSD into submission. 

“Shhh, its going to be okay,” John assuaged, still rubbing soothing circles into the mangled skin of his back. His expression had twisted into one of grief, as though the pain of those memories were shared as one - and perhaps, in a way, they were. John’s hurt had been his; and it seemed that his hurt affect John in the same way; as though they were tethered by an invisible connection. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut; nodded against John’s neck. For once in his life, he believed the unproven platitudes - it would be alright. They were here; they were together. Against all odds, they had ended up tangled together on the same bed, engulfed in each other’s arms, fingers linked and lips locked. They would pull through; and perhaps one day the ugly memories would fade, in a far-away but no too distant future of a life in Sussex with bees and books and love. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered into his hair, distracting Sherlock from thoughts of retirement. “I’m sorry I never knew. I’m sorry I was so angry when you came back and threw you to the ground, on your back. Jesus.” 

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock assured, and was surprised to realize he meant it. It was fine. Completely fine. Even if John couldn’t see it that way quite yet. He arched up and took John’s face in his hands, staring into his damp eyes. “Your anger was entirely justified. I don’t blame you in the slightest, and I never had.” 

“Christ, Sherlock; why not? You have every right,” John’s hands were trembling around him, his eyes dark with self-loathing. It was a look Sherlock knew too well; mirrored in his own mercurial eyes. And it was a look Sherlock knew John did not deserve to wear. “You did everything for me. You threw yourself off a building to save my life, and then risked yours again and again just to keep me safe. And I...” 

“John, don’t,” Sherlock stated softly, arresting John’s tirade of self-recrimination. John was still shaking with suppressed anger, tears brimming in his dark eyes, and Sherlock loathed to see it. He dipped his chin to kiss John on the forehead; a small press of lips, but it seemed to quiet John’s inner resentment. The roles had shifted, and Sherlock was aware. He knew John needed to feel protected right now, instead of his original role as protector. He needed to soothe John; silence his self-loathing, before it burgeoned into something furious and untamed. 

“You had every right to be angry,” Sherlock declared, and when John opened his mouth to argue, he added: “You had a rough two years too, didn’t you?” 

John stilled. Then the fight seemed to go out of him, and his shoulders slumped. Sherlock felt the grip he’d seized on his waist tighten in response. 

“When you died, I...” he swallowed, then started again. “I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. Everything reminded me of you - hell, even just making tea. I’d make two cups, remember all the things you liked, and then walk to the living room to hand yours to you. Then I’d remember, and I swear it was like a punch to the gut. Every single time.” 

Sherlock’s heart crumpled in his chest. He could imagine it - John, carrying two cups to the living room, perhaps even complaining aloud about Sherlock’s lassitude like he did every single time, and freeze whenever silence was his only response. Did he drop the cups in shock and dash tea across his socks? Did he collapse to his knees and break down? Sherlock didn’t know, and it was a strange feeling to realize that he didn’t really want to. Again that invisible tether was digging its way into his gut, sharing the pain of two years between them. 

“And then I met Mary, and she seemed to understand,” Sherlock winced a little at the mention of her name, but allowed John to proceed undeterred, “I mean, she was one of the only few people that didn’t think you were a fraud at first. She let me talk about you. She looked like a sympathized. She was a welcome distraction, but in the end, that’s all she was. A distraction.” John squeezed him tighter. “She didn’t hold a candle to you.” 

“And then you came back, and I had no idea what to do. I had two people I wanted in my life, and I thought I could keep both. I was selfish enough to try,” John sighed, and it was a weak sound - as self-depreciating as his previous thoughts. Sherlock’s heart ached. “But it wasn’t fair on you, was it? Either of you. I made you plan my wedding, and tried to pretend I didn’t see it when you looked at me like that.” 

Sherlock reeled back, startled that he’d been that transparent. “Like what?” 

John smiled sadly. “Like it was killing you every time you saw me with her.” 

Sherlock’s heart clenched. That...had been a rather accurate assessment, truthfully. He’d wandered back the Baker Street after the wedding, embroiled in despair, and contemplated the needle. He hadn’t taken any drugs that night, but it had followed, regardless. 

“And then she shot you,” John’s voice was quiet, but still seething with rage. That had been the turning point in his marriage; the limit to what he could take. He’d tried to forgive her, Sherlock knew; but apparently Mary’s decision to shoot him instead of coming clean about her lie was the one thing John could not tolerate. The divorce had followed, shortly after. “She shot you. She never apologized. She never looked like she fucking cared. I still tried to forgive her, but in the end...it was too much. Looking at her every time after that felt like looking at you in the fucking hospital bed. And I realized what I fucking arse I was being, trying to forgive someone who shot you in the chest and never even considered that it was wrong.” 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, but John was on a rampage; seething with a year’s worth of suppressed anger, guilt and regret. There was no stopping him now, so Sherlock quieted back down and allowed him to continue. 

“So I left her,” John continued, fingers still fisted in Sherlock’s shirt. The fabric creaked ominously between his fingers, his knuckles pressed stark white against his skin. “I left her and came back to Baker Street, and god, Sherlock; it was like coming home. It was like finding where I belonged again. Here, with you, solving crimes in this small, cramped flat filled with your clutter that still feels so much more welcoming than the house I shared with her. And fuck, I missed it. I missed the goddamn cow skull and the smiley face on the wall embedded with holes because of you and your experiments littering the kitchen whenever I wanted to make myself tea. But fuck, Sherlock; the thing I missed most was you. You and your goddamn sulks and tantrums and the way your eyes shine when you deduce something. How you wake up at ungodly hours of the night just to tear away at your violin until I feel like shoving the blasted thing up your arse. How you soothed me during my nightmares and cured my limp just by being in my life. How you made me feel like I meant something; like my life had meaning again, at a point in time when all I wanted to do was bite a bullet.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his throat choked with emotion. His heart was a thundering a fluttering percussion against his too-tight ribs, and he briefly wondered just how much strain it could endure before it gave up its palpitations completely. He wondered whether it was possible to simply die here; perish in the warmth of John’s arms and the emotion of his words, his usually infallible brain drowned in sentiment. It wouldn’t be the worst place to die, and Sherlock didn’t mind forfeiting his life if it meant staying here, locked in John’s tender yet firm embrace, for as long as his heat could beat. 

“You saved me, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded just as choked as Sherlock’s. His fingers were shaking where they were carding through his hair, stroking down the arch of each cheekbone in a soothing, affectionate caress. Sherlock placed a hand atop his, pressing each touch deeper into his skin. 

“You saved me too, John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice strained. It took effort just to squeeze the words out of his constricted words out. And from the pinched expression on John’s face, he seemed a similar state. Two broken men, fractured from the weight of their pasts and the loneliness that had steeped it, fixing each other through a love they both thought was unrequited. 

“Fuck, Sherlock;” John’s eyes were clenched shut, each blond lash damp with restrained tears. “I never...I never thought I could have this. I never thought I was ever worthy of this; worthy of you. You’re beautiful and smart and brave and a fucking pain in the arse and I love you, so, so much.” John’s eyes fluttered, batting away the tears. Sherlock’s hand came up to stroke them away from where they had slid down each cheek. They were warm against the pad of his thumb. 

“Of course you’re worthy, John,” Sherlock declared. He wasn’t trying to soothe; he was simply stating the facts. “You deserve everything. More than the lies she fed you.” 

John smiled then. “You fucking Romantic, Sherlock Holmes.” 

“I’m just stating the facts, John,” Sherlock replied curtly, with a customary roll of the eyes. “And its not like you’re any better.” 

“No, I suppose not,” John chuckled, his features relaxing into something considerably more light. Sherlock discovered he liked that expression far better. “But seriously; I’ve always wanted you, Sherlock. Since that first night, and every night after that. But I never wanted to let myself believe it, lest you found out, too.” 

“I wouldn’t have rejected you, John,” Sherlock replied quietly. 

“I know, git,” John smiled sadly. “At least, I know now. But back then...all I knew was that you were married to your work. I was terrified that you’d find my attraction a hindrance, of a sort, or that you’d even stop letting me accompany you to crime scenes because you found me more of a burden than an asset. I couldn’t...I couldn’t let that happen. So I lied to myself and everyone else. And somehow I managed to do it so well I made you believe it too.” 

Sherlock ducked his head. He really had believed it; convinced himself that John wasn't and could not ever be attracted to him. Granted, his self-depreciation had obviously played a hand in this misconception - whispering unkind words in his ear, chastising him for ever believing that someone as brave and kind and loyal as John would possibly see him in that light. All the while, John had been battling demons of his own; and he had never seen. 

“So what changed?” Sherlock whispered tentatively. “What made you change your mind about this; about us? Why tonight?” 

“Yesterday,” John said, the fondness in his words unmistakable, “when you crashed on Lestrade’s desk, of all things, while doing the goddamn paperwork. He was too exasperated to deal with you then, so he made me.” 

Mortification spiked in Sherlock’s heart. “I didn’t say anything stupid, did I?” 

John laughed. “No,” he replied, still grinning. “But you were fucking adorable, Sherlock; you pawed at me like some...some...some sleepy kitten. Like a child. You were irresistible.” 

Sherlock flushed, the color stealing across his cheeks. He knew his inhibitions usually dropped while sleepy or loopy or drunk, but he hadn’t expected to have made such a fool of himself in his enfeebled state. At least John found it endearing, which was fortunate at least, but God knew what was coming next in whatever mortifying anecdote that followed.

“And when I scooped you up, you latched onto me like some octopus. You just winded your limbs around me and wouldn’t let go. And fuck, did you know you muttered in your sleep? That was-” 

“You scooped me up?” Sherlock cut in, appalled. “Did you carry me all the way home??”

“All the way to your bed, actually,” John amended with a grin that broadened in response to Sherlock’s answering blush. “And...well, having you in my arms...how warm you were; how precious and cute and human...I guess it made me realize just how much I loved you, and just how much you cared. Something just...clicked. And I realized I wanted - hell, _needed_ \- to kiss you; tell you how I felt, all these years. I just..wanted.” 

“I’m glad,” Sherlock replied softly, still blinking away tears. He pressed his forehead against John’s and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m glad you decided to tell me, John.” 

“Me too,” John responded, his voice the same, lowered murmur; as if he was disclosing a secret that the world needn’t know. Sherlock’s heart ached. 

“Kiss me again, John,” Sherlock implored. “Please.” 

And John did. Again and again and again, until his tears dried and the sun began to steep the room a warm, honeyed glow. It fell across their twined bodies like a veil; a blanket of warmth, limning them in light and banishing shadow. It wove gold into their hair and gilded their skin as they kissed and shared breaths, panting into the minuscule space between their mouths; the place that belonged entirely to them. It stippled patterns into their skin, danced across the marks on Sherlock’s back and the flowered scar on John’s shoulder - wounds that were masked no longer, and were finally allowed their turn to meet the light. 

Sequestered in their room away from the city’s sights; bathed in radiance that filigreed their room in gold and painted their walls in frescoes of light and shadow, only three words existed to fill the spaces between deepening moans and shallow gasps - an utterance of few syllables that took two men an eternity to form, withheld no longer by fear and deception and angst.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade checked his watch. Tapped it several times. The hands did not move; the numbers did not change. The display remained the same. 

The detective inspector sighed, running a hand across his silvery hair. He was tempted to send another text message demanding their location and an explanation for their tardiness, but his long friendship with Sherlock Holmes had taught him that it would be futile. The detective would show up at his own pace, when he was good and ready to face what he himself proclaimed the ‘stupidity of Scotland Yard’, and no amount of goading from Lestrade would change that. He settled his hands in his pockets and sighed, resigning himself to a long - or perhaps even fruitless, had Sherlock decided simply not to show up - wait.

Lestrade swept a glance across the crime scene, watching the comings and goings of the befuddled officers behind him, and sighed in remembrance of the wrinkles and tears that had seamed yesterday’s paperwork. After John had hauled him off the table - and then proceeded to carry him off back home like a lovesick hubby - Lestrade had managed to reassemble the scattered files and documents and retain some semblance of order, though he still hadn’t gotten the chance to remove the coffee stain from the rug and replace his shattered coffee cup. Still though, Sherlock had done quite a number on the paperwork he had been assigned to completing, and Lestrade, once more, had resigned himself into completing it in his stead. Running on caffeine fumes and short sleep, Lestrade had fallen into bed that night with a furrow between his brows - one that had only deepened when he received a call the next day informing him of a newly committed homicide to which his division had been assigned. 

He stole a glance to his watch once more, wondering if Sherlock was still too sleep-deprived too juggle another case. He normally disliked the thought of recruiting his aid back-to-back like this, especially since he knew too well how the detective loved neglecting sleep in favor of solving puzzles, but this particular murder had gotten them truly stumped. How Sherlock would’ve loved to hear that, and then promptly remind them of their stupidity with his usual panache. 

He checked his phone again. No missed calls. No new messages. 

“Goddamnit,” Lestrade sighed, then tucked the device back into his pocket. Radio silence either meant declination or that Sherlock was so sleep-deprived he hadn’t the wherewithal to respond nor acknowledge the proffered case. In either scenario, it very much looked like his division was on their own. 

Just as he was about to return to his bewildered colleagues, his phone chimed. 

_Noted. Will be there in 5 mins. SH_

Lestrade heaved out a sigh of relief, checked his watch to determine the time, and shuffled off to regroup with his colleagues and warn them of the imminent arrival of their favorite consulting detective.

*

He saw the cab pull over the curb, recognized their profiles in the back seat - but was admittedly not prepared for their method of entry. 

“What the hell, John?” Lestrade said, more confused and bewildered than anything else. “Is this going to be a recurring thing now?” 

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade from his position in John’s arms; though, cradled as he was against the doctor’s chest like some fainting damsel, it didn’t really have its intended effect. There were spots of color dashed across his cheekbones, his posture defensive - for what reason was beyond him. “Shut up, Lestrade.” 

John, on the other hand, greeted Lestrade with his usual pleasant smile. “Yeah; well, the git can’t really walk, so we had to settle with this again.” 

Sherlock’s cheeks flamed. “ _John_ .” He stammered. 

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “He can’t walk?” 

“Yeah,” John replied, borderline smug. “After the night we had, can’t say I blame him.” 

Sherlock’s face turned a worrying shade of maroon, and Lestrade’s jaw went slack. 

“John!” Sherlock snapped, his grip tightening around John’s shoulders. The doctor chuckled, then dipped his head to press a chaste kiss upon the detective’s forehead. The gesture seemed innocent, but intimate and affectionate enough that Lestrade felt weirdly intrusive of witnessing it. 

“You know what?” he finally stated, hands raised. “I don’t think I want to know. Just get him to the crime scene, would you, John?” 

“Sure thing,” John replied pleasantly, and carted off his detective towards where the body lay. Lestrade watched as he strolled away, the detective’s embarrassed scowl visible from the distance; as was John’s answering chuckle. Whatever transpired after the events of yesterday night had obviously blossomed into a fruition enjoyable to them both, and Lestrade halted that train of thought before it could proceed any further. He didn’t want any mental images seared into his brain. Still though, he found himself smiling; a furtive tilt of his lips.

_About bloody time,_ he thought, watching Sherlock’s mercurial gaze latch upon the corpse while situated snugly in his doctor’s arms. He shook his head, trying to clear the grin that had spread across his lips, and jogged over to the murder scene to indulge Sherlock in another one of his typical enlightened spiels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I never intended this fic to have become as long and heavy as it did. Oops. Hope you all enjoyed anyway!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, but my procrastinating, writer's blocked, lazy ass wouldn't let me write it until a day later. Sorry, folks - -' 
> 
> Also, this is super short, super cheesy and John likes to swear. Again, I apologize. 
> 
> P.S. As I am an Asian girl and not a British man, I'm only familiar with the British slang used in the show and the fanfic I read. If usage in erroneous, I apologize, and please inform me of my error!! (It seems like I have a lot to apologize for lol.)


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